


plummet straight down

by vexedcer



Series: brooklyn bridge [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, im building up to jimon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11580036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexedcer/pseuds/vexedcer
Summary: He could jump. It might not kill him. Neither the impact or drowning. He could just swim to shore and dry off and no one would be the wiser.It would still be a suicide attempt though.(Things are bad. Simon needs some help.)





	plummet straight down

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for: contemplating suicide/suicidal thoughts, extensive ideation and a few minor alcohol mentions.

He's standing at the edge of the Brooklyn bridge - the real edge. Not just the edge of the footpath raised above the cars, the real edge that if he took that last leap over the barrier, he'd plummet straight down into the river below.

He's not sure that it would accomplish what he's come to contemplate. Can vampires drown? They don't exactly need to breath so he doubts it. Would the fall kill him? The velocity and force of his falling body hitting the water could kill a mundane, probably. Maybe it would kill a vampire too.

If all the legends about being a vampire were true, he'd already be dead because vampires shouldn't be able to cross running water.

He thought the worst part of being a vampire would be the bloodlust, and in some ways it is, but he found that he missed the sun. Going out into the light, feeling it on his face and neck. He didn't think he took the sun for granted because, well - he lives in New York. It's not exactly the sunniest place on Earth.

It must suck to be a vampire in somewhere like Florida, or Texas - or generally closer to the Equator. It's brighter for longer there, so a limited night must make for a limited life.

Of course, now sunlight is just sunlight again for him. He's a Daylighter now, making him another social oddity. He's a pariah in every kind of world, apparently.

He looks out into the river, a thick dark void in front and below him.

He could jump. It might not kill him. Neither the impact or drowning. He could just swim to shore and dry off and no one would be the wiser.

It would still be a suicide attempt though.

And see - if he wasn't a vampire, he doesn't think he'd even be standing here. He never got this far before he was turned, because he was at home and his mom and Clary and Becks would see the spiral into the darkest parts of himself long before he'd end up here. 

His mom would have called the doctor and the therapist, he'd probably still be on his anti-depressants, and him and Clary would make fun of bad sci-fi late into the night in the living room to try and make him feel like himself again.

She'd drag him to Central Park or to the shore of the very river rushing under his shoes a thousand feet below, to draw or people-watch. They never said it was so his mom and sister could clean up his room while he was gone; open the curtains and dust the place down so he didn't live in mess caused by neglect.

But Clary is all caught up in her new life, their new world. Too busy to see that the grey clouds have rolled into Simon's brain and decided to stick around.

He doesn't blame her, not really. She found out a month ago that her mom has been lying to her for her entire life and is now dead, her dad is a genocidal murderer, and also there's a whole world of supernatural that they've both been dragged into.

Or maybe he does blame her, because she dated him to forget Jace, forget that something close to fate is pushing the two of them together, and still didn't see that the worst parts of Simon were bubbling up to the surface.

He doesn't know how he feels, really. Hence, standing at the barrier of Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of the night.

It would have just been easier if he'd done this when he first turned. He should have stayed away from the Hotel Dumort, waited until daybreak and walked into the sunshine one last time.

Poetic.

Except it's not really. His mind is cluttered and loud, but also numb and heavy and he doesn't know how he managed to walk all the way to the bridge with his mind so filled with nothingness.

There's nothing poetic about standing on a literal precipice and contemplating what could be the end.

Maybe he could stay here until the sun rises, claim to himself that all he wanted was to see dawn over their busy world. He was never planning to jump, no, not at all. He just wanted to see his city in all it's glory.

Lying to yourself is easy when you're trying to convince someone else that it's the truth.

But the night is still pitch black, the buildings lit up like Christmas trees and he's too far away to hear the hum of the city that never sleeps, but his mind supplies it for him.

The world feels so incredibly quiet and small, even looking out at the reflection of the lights on the water in the distance.

He still doesn't know if this could kill him. He still stands at the edge, thinking about the dark depths below.

Would it sound even more quiet under the waves? Would it be dark enough that he'd never see the sun again?

That's the part that makes him ache; losing the sun again. If he stayed under the water until he starved or he did actually drown, the idea of never seeing the sun again is what gives him little pangs of mourning in his chest.

He supposes he's allowed mourn; it's his life that's ending.

Provided he jumps, of course. Provided the fall kills him.

If he really wanted a sure-fire way to death he could antagonise some wolves. Walk through the doors of the Hotel Dumort with metaphorical sausages around his throat. Hell, he could probably stake himself if he tried hard enough.

There are easier ways to do this, more definite and fool-proof. Maybe he's more attached because he thought about jumping off of it, just as an ideation, everyday for six months when his mom drove him to his therapist.

He never told any of them that, not his mom or Clary or his therapist. He probably should have considering he's standing here.

He's surprised that no one's noticed him yet; no cars have driven by yet, but there are people on the path above. Some of them sing drunkenly while others walk fast and careful, just trying to get home and away from the sins they committed tonight.

It feels like he's been at the edge for hours, at least. Not one person sees him below, their feet wandering in an unsteady way or quick and perfunctory.

No one strolls the streets of New York in the dark hours of September. It's a dangerous place. He's one of the reasons it is.

But - there's one pace he can hear coming. Neither rushed or messy, the pace is almost leisurely. Or watchful.

The soft measured thud as someone lands down onto the asphalt behind him upsets the silence - he can hear the electrical buzz of the lamps over the footpath and the subtle creak of the suspension cables now.

The serenity is displaced. He can feel the cold metal of the barrier under his hand where he's been gripping it.

Jace is easy to place now that he's paying attention: the rustle of his leather jacket and the last lingering strains of his cologne and the faintest hint of sweat. He leans next to the barrier with his back to the water, casual like he isn't standing next to someone who wants to kill themselves.

Jace puts up a cool front, and he always has. He pretends nothing ever gets through that thick skin that he tells himself he has, but right now his heart is racing.

“Magnus was worried when you didn't come back tonight,” he says in in lieu of a greeting. “I told him I'd look out for you on my patrol.”

“Your patrol ended hours ago,” he states. His voice is rough from disuse and he doesn't budge his eyes from the unchanging darkness of the water ahead. “And you don't usually come by this way.”

Jace’s heart jumps for a second. “Simon -” he starts to say, standing up straighter and turning to look at him more directly.

“I'm fine,” he says, hand clenching on the barrier even tighter. His fingertips dent inwards about half an inch.

Jace places a hand on his arm, tugging softly. “I'm bringing you home,” he says quietly. He's dropped the act, the Too-Cool-To-Care facade that he holds up like a shield. He's softer without it, not as untouchable as he pretends to be.

Jace does a lot of pretending.

He lets himself be lead across the way to scale the side of the bridge and hop back onto the footpath. Jace pulls out his cellphone and fires off a text, presumably to Magnus.

The people on the path have dispersed, leaving just a few stragglers behind, eyes down and coat collars flipped up.

Most of the walk back to Magnus’, his home now, is silent, but Jace finally asks about a block away from the apartment.

“Would you have jumped?” He says, stopping them under a street lamp. The light above drops onto Jace, making his already golden hair shine vibrantly like a wreath around his head.

Jace looks like a true nephilim in that moment, something holy and pure and godly. He looks down.

“It wouldn't have killed me, I don't think,” he answers instead, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement underfoot.

“That's not what I asked,” Jace responds, his voice quiet still.

It's like he's trying not to be loud, as if he'll spook like a horse and flee the minute Jace isn't looking at him with those mismatched eyes, the shard of brown vivid in the sea of blue.

“I don't know,” he tells him, equally as quiet. He drags his shoe along the pavement again, the noise filling the chasm of silence between their bodies.

Simon is suddenly exhausted, the heavy numbness weighting in like a physical thing, dragging him down. When they finally start walking again, he's slowed down considerably. Jace says nothing and just keeps pace with him.

As they near the apartment, Simon thinks of that night on the balcony, Magnus with a glass of alcohol in his hand. He thinks about the warlock, the lonely figure he probably cut on Blackfriars Bridge.

Magnus’ door opens quietly in the hallway, framing the man himself. He isn't wearing as much jewellery has he usually does. His eyes are free of the sooty black makeup he prefers, and he's dressed down a considerable amount. It's such a contrast to the usual dressed-up glittery man he knows, and it feels almost like he's looking at a completely different person.

The apartment is dimly lit, the silence heavy between the three as they step into the living room.

“Is Alec not here?” He asks nervously.

He feels almost like he's in trouble. He supposes he is, but the fear in his stomach is something akin to the time him and Clary got stranded on the other side of Manhattan with no money and two dead phones. They arrived back at Clary's house two hours after curfew, Jocelyn, Elaine and Luke pacing the Fray’s kitchen. They'd both been grounded for two weeks.

“He's staying at the Institute tonight.” Magnus’ voice cuts through the memory, pulling him back to the present. “Some representatives from the Clave are arriving in a few hours.”

Simon opens his mouth to say something but quickly closes it. _In a few hours._

Both Magnus and Jace have dark circles under their eyes. His internal clock tells him it's probably about four am. He knows Jace's patrol ended at one before someone else took over and Magnus’ last client probably left at around midnight -

Which means they've been looking for him for at least three and a half hours. Guilt settles in his gut.

He looks down at the ground, one of Magnus’ thick old carpets under his foot. He studies the pattern of it.

Magnus moves forward to place a hand on Simon's bicep, his touch gentle through the layers Simon doesn't remember putting on.

“We need to talk about this, Simon,” he says, voice gentle. He didn't call him _Stewart_ or _Steve_ or whatever other “S” name Magnus can come up with on the spot. This isn't the time for joking.

He nods at the carpet, tracing the swirling colours intently. If he looks up, he thinks he might fall apart right now which is really not what he wants. “Can we - can we do it in the morning?” He steels himself and meets Magnus’ eyes anyways. The glamour is brown and warm and filled with concern. “You've both been up all night worrying and I'm -”

He stops, feeling his breathing stutter in his chest.

Magnus’ hand hovers over his cheek for a moment, not touching but still gentle, all of his age showing through on his face for seconds. “We'll do it in the morning,” he nods. “Time for bed.”

Simon nods, ducking his head as the hand falls away. “Thanks, guys,” he gulps, “For everything.”

He can hear their hushed worried voices as he sits on the edge of his bed, pulling his shoes off. He settles on the mattress, not even bothering to crawl under the covers.

The apartment shudders as Magnus adds another room, presumably for Jace to sleep in.

He drifts off to the sound of doors shutting in the distance, falling into the welcoming blackness of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie, I totally wrote this to deal w my own bs, which was particularly bad tonight lmao


End file.
